


Interview, Interrupted

by TypingBosmer



Series: Chronicles of Tharnia [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Fix-It, Gen, Post-Dark Aeon, Time Travel, Winterhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypingBosmer/pseuds/TypingBosmer
Summary: Viarmo of the Bards' College is in the middle of interviewing Winterhold's mysterious new Archmage, but the Psijics arrive to take the man back where he belongs.
Relationships: Tharnfucking Implied
Series: Chronicles of Tharnia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519574
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Elder Scrolls





	Interview, Interrupted

When the Psijics visit Winterhold for the last time, their mission is not quite as urgent as during the… incident. Back when a barrier of blaring, coiling white and blue and purple slashed across the bridge (or a glorified collection of lumpy, ice-coated rocks, held together by sheer fear of collapsing into the churning pit of tar-like water below); and the narrow windows of the magical College bled streams of azure light that emanated from the infamous Eye of Magnus. 

Still, they do have some other things to take care of. The magical anomalies still linger, albeit of a different nature. There are streaks of hissing white light appearing all over Skyrim, like gashes made by unseen Khajiiti claws in the fabric of space and time - and they occur most often around the longsuffering College building.

Though perhaps, during this Era, its suffering is about to come to an end.

Just as before, the Psijics do not make a detour to the town itself - otherwise, they would have noticed how much it has changed.

There are more buildings now, robust structures clearly built out of more than just rotting planks and clamps of hardened snow to hold them together. Quite a few of them are shops, dedicated to anything from food and warm clothing to magic supplies - as proudly announced by the colourful signs, painted turquoise and purple, with gilded adornments that glitter subtly when the hinges creak in the icy wind.

The bridge, while still rather precarious, is broader now. Even, with no bumps and pitfalls and sudden gaps chewed in by the elements. It has a sturdy stone railing, and pillars that actually appear to be doing their job.

But the mages of Artaeum seldom have need for mundane things like bridges. Instead of walking all this way, mingling with the motley crowd that has been trickling in from all ends of the province in search of magical learning, they simply manifest themselves where they need to be. In the Archmage’s quarters.

The Archmage is entertaining a visitor when they arrive. Thankfully, in a less embarrassing way than last time, when the Psijic magic flooded his room just as he and Mistress Faralda were very much absorbed in swapping lightning spell techniques (very particular techniques that involved very few spell tomes and even less clothing). Today, however, the Archmage is fully dressed, wrapped tightly in his fur-adorned robes in defense against the disagreeable climate that even the ever-roaring enchanted brazier do not quite seem to soften. Just as his guest, a male Altmer this time, with a knotty beard and impressive head of bushy dirty-blonde hair that stands a bit on end. That is, the guest is also bundled up, scarves on end up to the pointy tip of his nose. Disagreeable, though, he is not. On the contrary, the questions that he is asking, scribbling furiously all the time on the stack of papers in his lap, seem to flatter the Archmage.

He smiles a languid, crooked smile over the steepled tips of his fingers, his elbows resting on his desk.

‘As you can see, Master Viarmo, over my tenure here, I managed to whip this sorry town into shape. And that is in between negotiating for a peaceful end to this ludicrous civil war. Your Bards’ College was right to think of mentioning me in the Dragonborn’s tale’.

The smile grows a fraction broader… Affectionate, almost.

‘The Dragonborn may be a personage of a calibre somewhat… comparable to mine, but I have been doing all the logistical work. The world does not get restored through bandit punching and dragon slaying alone. Though that, too, helps’.

Viarmo lifts his quill up and points it questioningly across the desk.

'You yourself appear to have some dragon-like powers. Several witnesses have seen you absorbing the souls of the great sky beasts, just as the Dragonborn’.

The Archmage jerks one shoulder, and his expression sours, the corners of his thin lips sagging down.

'I do have the ability, yes. But other than the exhilarating surge of power, it does not seem to grant anything else to me. I cannot learn Words of Power just by staring at a wall for a few seconds; nor can I wield the Voice. Well, I could, but that would require years of rigorous training. So the Greybeards told me, after I did them the immense favour of climbing that impossible mountain of theirs, and they discovered I was not the one they had summoned, after all’.

His lips form a twisted loop of contempt; even the perfectly trimmed triangles of hair that frame his chin and jaw seem to bristle sharper.

'Apparently, the gift they were looking for was something one is… born with. Like that naïve young hero I shaped into the saviour of Skyrim. Who knows how the Dragonborn would have fared if we had not met’.

'Your abilities are still rare,’ Viarmo remarks, flipping back through his notes for reference. Looking up, he adds, his amber meric eyes locking with the Archmage’s piercing blue,

'How did you come to possess them in the first place?’

The blue sears like the sea waves outside do on a rare sunny day.

'A magical accident left me imbued with draconic energy that I later multiplied somewhat by fighting more dragons than… than I expected. The exact circumstances are, let us say… none of your business’.

'But,’ Viarmo holds the glare of a few more seconds, then gives in and returns to his rustling heap.

'I would rather not speak of what brought me to Skyrim, or how I acquired my abilities. It would be beyond your comprehension either way. How about we return to lauding my current accomplishments?’

This is when the room is, once again, submerged in a dim blue light, with motes of silvery dust circling lazily in the air. They are the only thing that moves now, aside from the Archmage - startled by the interruption; annoyed, too; but not surprised - and the approaching hooded figures. Viarmo freezes in his seat across the desk from the Archmage - a statue of blueish grey stone, his paper sheets suddenly as solid as granite, a droplet of ink dangling off his quill on an unbreakable thread.

'Beyond his comprehension, perhaps,’ says one of the Psijics, drawing back her hood to reveal tussles of silvery hair carelessly whipped in a large loose bun. 'But not beyond ours. We know who you are, Archmage Aeneas. You do not belong in this timeline. The more you linger here, the more time rifts will appear - just as in those days when my predecessor was still our Ritemaster. In the days when you were still in your own era’.

'It is hardly my fault that chaotic energy exploded in my face and displaced me in time, is it?’ the Archmage quirks an eyebrow, not missing a beat. 'Although I am quite flattered that the Psijic Ritemaster herself decided to escort me back home. Shall I seek out your past version when we are done, and ask her out for dinner?’

'You seem rather glib about leaving this era behind,’ another Psijic pipes up. 'Didn’t you just brag about how much you built here?’

The Archmage rises from his desk, brushing his fingers carelessly against the frozen Viarmo’s shoulder when he walks by him.

'I detest pompous goodbyes. Have had to feign too many of those at funerals. I made arrangements in case my stay here would not turn out to be permanent. After I am… gone, Viarmo here, along with his bards, will see to the preservation of my legacy. Winterhold will be left in the capable hands of Mirabelle - a few nights together were not the only reason I saved her life. And the Dragonborn will receive a letter from me, with explanations and my true name and an assurance of my respect. The…’

He bites at his lips, and his nostrils flare.

'The hapless child might cry, and I have no wish to witness that. Although… It might be amusing to see if anyone is crying for me in the Second Era, since I am about to grace them all with my return. If you could place me at my own funeral…’

'We will make no such promises,’ the Ritemaster snaps, even as a circle of ethereal light begins to pool at her feet, like a splash of molten platinum. 'If you are as ready as you say you are, let us begin. Who knows how many more time rifts appeared while you were talking’.

The Archmage tosses up his head, and the aura of the Psijics’ magic paints his face like a mask of glowing white and deep blue shadow. His expression is unreadable, but one of his hands, before he clasps both firmly behind his rigid back, reaches out weakly towards Viarmo. Who is still there. Unmoving. Unknowing that, when he blinks himself back to awareness as the colours return to the room and time begins to flow again, he will be all alone. With just his notes of an odd Imperial who called himself Aeneas, helped the Dragonborn rebuild Skyrim from the ashes, and grew particularly fond of the College of Winterhold, which has been flourishing under his and Mirabelle Ervine’s leadership.

'Take me home. Before I decide this place is my home now,’ the Archmage says, his voice suddenly brittle, and closes his eyes.


End file.
